i do, actually, still write (poetry dump)

[hereinevitably]

what is up. i have not written fic for like well over half a year now, but i did take two different poetry workshops over the summer. which involved writing! though my drives are a mess right now so i don't remember which docs are final drafts and which are. in progress drafts. and i've definitely tweeted various versions of all of these before on requiemana. but whatever. also some of the formatting is fucked up (edit: especially on mobile holy shit does mobile hate my use of indentation) and i'm too lazy / don't like reading my own writing enough to comb through and fix everything so. sorry about that. anyways here's what i can scrounge up:

SCREEN RITUAL  (20XX)

I.

Scene 3, Take 4. Summer heat. The way the boom mics wave around

up above. The way coffee cups litter the side table

and the way the cameras swing.

The way the lighting sloshes when someone jostles 

its stand, everything liquified 

in the heaviness of this strange night. You move

around like you’re wading through blood

or jam, something sticky. The way it’s rising,

the blood, the jam, it’s rising to sink the crown

of your pretty head.

It’s too much for you, you’re losing

your focus. Your tongue

signal jamming the script, your lines drowned in a flood of bodily fluids or toast spread,

your arms waving around like you’re trying

to stay afloat, everything

aching to a halt for a moment before I enter.

I grab the clapperboard from some poor crew member and snap

it shut, the sound of the slate 

decapitating

the head of this tricky thing we call silence, and I walk

back to my chair. 

Scene 3, Take 5. Look at me. No, not at the camera, 

at me. Good, yes, like that.

II. 

You’ve made a mistake this time, you’ve
done something terrible. A faux pas in front of some

hotshot auteur, it’s the end of the world, the ground recoiling

as a punishment. When you walk you leave 

rot in the imprint of your footsteps.

You’re wailing, frantic, frothing,

sea foam cresting on a wave of hysteria, you’re saying I’m ruined

I’ll never find work again I’m ruined you hear

ruined ruined ruined— 

and I’m yelling keep rolling keep rolling

don’t you dare stop yes this is perfect 

we will edit out the ugliest shots

 and keep the rest oh yes— 

and I’m thinking about your face

on the big rolling screen,

it’s a blockbuster, people have

popcorn and soda pop and it’s so delightful,

doesn’t it feel good

to be an idol like this, a darling, doesn’t it feel good

to be loved like this? You asked me

to make you a star once, you were sweet about it too, a little

desperate, so I gave you exactly

what you wished for. I made

all the right cuts, I taught you how to be desirable.

How not to feel claustrophobic 

when your entire life is spent in 

1.85:1 or 2:39:1.

How all you need to do is to say your lines

with a punch or two and remember

all the people that worship you, and the aspect ratio

will become a temple.

III.

We’re on set, the very last shoot. I’m in the director’s chair,

as per usual. I want you to look at me again.

It’s half-past-midnight, what lovely lighting 

the moon makes. 

You’ve been forgiven, dear, you’ll always be forgiven by everyone

who matters. Look at me.

It’s all a matter of muscle memory, the pucker of your mouth or the crinkle

of your eyes. 

Your character, running through the forest. You, running through the forest.

You, martyred under the gaze 

of the stars. You, grinning into the dark.

You, dying a death that will be made immortal, a godly way of going out.

The pause, click, rewind, click, play, click

will save and sacrifice you, over and over.

Look at me. Good.

Tonight, you will shine like the newly divine.



We’re at the bay

A tethered boat, stink slithering

through the air. I’m talking about fish again. The soft, 

tender underbelly. The bones and spine 

in the trash and the blood under my nails. I’m talking about 

the salt and the spray and the sun as well, yes, but mostly

the fish. You know what’s the funniest thing

about fish? You ask a man to picture a monster

and he gives you an animal, a beast, something decidedly-

not-human. But to a fish? A monster

is just a bigger, freakier fish. One with more 

teeth. One with sharper teeth. A swooping

jaw and a dark, hungry mouth. A really mean

bite. The fish probably have it right. 

It really is far too easy to slip from man 

to monster. It doesn’t happen in a sudden

snap, but it sure feels like it. Like when your hands happen

to pick across a stray mosquito bite, and it never 

bothered you before, but now you know it’s there. 

And now you’re itchy and uncomfortable because 

you know it’s there. Or like when you’re walking down the street. 

And you start running, fleeing with the crowd— 

only to be cut through by the storefront window,

a figure, muddled behind the greased handprints,

but still ghastly. The teeth, the red eyes, the claws. 

The broil in your stomach when the jaws move

in tandem with your screaming. The cruel-

looking mouth lolling open. The fur, the wildness,

 the cruel realization that you wanted

all the wrong things and all the wrong people 

because it is simple to want

and terribly complicated to want in the right way. The right things 

at the right time. What you want right now is anything

but this: your ragdoll body flung 

through that same window by that same crowd, the glassy 

light of your reflection shuddering and shattering

before wrapping around you like a casket.

In another life this would be regarded as a tragedy.

An accident. A damn shame. But in the one you’re stuck 

with, it is a resounding victory. The monster
has been vanquished, the people are safe. You

have been vanquished, the people are safe.

Self-Portrait as a Dead Deer

In my backyard, a deer carcass turned up

yesterday. Its wounds not quite fresh,

but still red, 

still gaping, half of the torso

scraped away, some predator

and their hunger. There’s a deer

corpse in my backyard. I’m in the

eighth grade. I think about

these things as I dig a hole with my mother,

drag the deer in. Do deer believe

in heaven? Do deer dream

of resting one day? Is that how things go?

Today, I buried a dead deer. Tomorrow, 

I will go and lie in the dirt

in my backyard, the grass like fur, 

the trees antlers.

Sunny-Side Up

I.

I’m sitting on a balcony // I’m telling you something important // I’m dangling

my legs off the side // I’m kicking them back & forth // again & again

I’m thinking about the sunset // in this blustering city // I’m telling you how it looks

like the runny yolk of a cracked-open egg // in a frying pan that’s spilling // sloshing over

into a newly marigold sky blushing // pink at the edges // I’m asking you what you want

for breakfast tomorrow // I’m considering eggs // I’m feeling inspired by that yolk

I’m touching that sky // I’m tracing light with the fascination of a child // whose first day

alive is today // I’m telling you to look at where my hand goes // I’m following 

that warm brilliance down // to the streets below // I’m seeing cars attempt a game of

playing tetris on asphalt // slotting into parking spaces // skipping past traffic lights

I’m realizing everyone wants to be somewhere // I’m asking what this should mean // I’m telling 

you that I'll figure it out one day // I’m taking pictures // I’m fiddling & fidgeting

 around with the camera settings // I’m adjusting the lens // I’m telling you to get in the shot

I’m pressing the shutter button // I’m shuddering in the sudden breeze // I’m checking

the final image // I’m telling you that I’m going to print this // I’m picturing the magnets

arranged on our fridge // the magic of attraction // holding up this memory

II.

You watch me shiver again, and you say it’s time to get inside now,
and you drape a blanket around my shoulders. You yank at the sliding
door, and the curtains billow like puffing ghosts as the last of the now-dusk-
night-air is firmly shut out. You set a kettle to boil water. You rummage
around the cupboards, and you pull out an unopened package of
chrysanthemum tea, and you carefully tear at the small slit on the bag.
You glance over to see me settle down at the kitchen counter, my head
slumped onto the cool imitation marble. You hum quietly as you work.

i also have some random scraps from various writing exercises but these four are like. the most concrete, fleshed out pieces i have :thumbsup: i don't think any of them are perfect, but i do think they're some of the best stuff i've created in a while. because, you know, improvement over time is a thing. poetry is so cool guys. also i have like three dreamwidth posts just sitting in my drafts as i type out this one send help.

Comments

[luvisms]

u are god to me actually... all of these slap so incredibly hard i love u

[hereinevitably]

thank u hui jie i love u dearly <3_____<3

AGH

[gunnhildrz]

this is so. this is soooooo...
you really know how to write poetry idk how else to explain it. the dead deer poem was my favorite so i will talk about that one. i loved how short but meaningful it was and like. i could analyze it a million different ways and they could all be right but most of all i liked how it was written through the lens of that phase in childhood when you're beginning to understand meaning that you learned without being taught. you captured all the right feelings. you're really talented

Re: AGH

[hereinevitably]

THANK U i do put a lot of work into my poems. also this is fun to me because the deer poem was my favorite of the bunch as well! it plays off this thing of like. for each line u could flip the two parts and they would still make sense. or even offer more insight! "corpse in my backyard, I'm in the" becomes "I'm in the deer corpse in my backyard." anyways yes thank u once more for saying all of this <3

Re: AGH

[gunnhildrz]

WAIT that's incredible i just went back and read the poem that way and wow. brilliant